


Jokers Are Wild

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Sentinel Thursday Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair knows how to play to the gallery.<br/>A response to Sentinel Thursday Challenge #499 - "bar"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jokers Are Wild

I’ve been following the sounds for some time, but I can see him now – there’s a glare of industrial spotlights ahead, just a pinprick in this labyrinth of old buildings but it’s drawing me in like a homing beacon. Because it doesn’t take much of an effort to throw out my sight and see him as the centrepiece of that little lighted tableau back there.

He’s talking. After the petty violence I’ve been listening to, the slaps and the punches, the soggy smack of fist to gut and shout of pain that goes with it, it’s good to hear his voice. Many, many people who think they know him believe he can no more stop talking than stop breathing, but I know the difference. I know when he’s speaking with the sole intent to pull me in, give me clues, ground me as I do my jungle thing and let the panther take me into action. When he’s talking like that, I won’t zone – I innately know there’s too much at stake – and I’m fully aware of everything around me and the next moves I need to make.

He learned quick. Not that I had to teach him that, or anything else about our work. He’s pretty much always right about things. He’s a natural; a natural genius - a genius at everything he does, in fact. Except maybe not tidying up after himself. But the upsides are so good, I can overlook a little slovenliness nowadays, and surprise myself less and less by doing so.

He’s not here of his own doing, oh no. Didn’t I just say? He’s a genius. It was his bright sparks of thought, allied with some brutish senses work from me, that figured out where they were holding the kids in the first place. Incompetent, amateur kidnappers acting on orders from a higher power up the criminal food chain, but they got those children out from under FBI protection all right, and it took Sandburg to stop everyone overthinking the problem and bring us right back to where they were holed up. Except – I swear to God, our local Feds must to a man have to take an ineptitude test before they’re employed, because no sooner had we sprung the kids, then those jokers take their eyes off the ball again. And Sandburg, still in full mother-hen mode - and who’s to blame him for that – gets taken right with them when the perps return for a second bite of the cherry.

That’s why it’s just me right now. Because – call me arrogant - I alone know how this needs to go down. Major Crimes is about ten minutes behind me; just right for the mop-up. And if Simon has done his job as usual, then the Feds will be a little further behind them again. We’ve all learned from Sandburg over the years, and Simon’s obfuscation capabilities in holding off Federal interest – already finely honed – have increased exponentially.

My partner – pretty much always right.

They’ve kept him alive so far. For that I will be eternally grateful, not that it’ll colour my plan of attack much. It’s the talking that does it, I think. With a certain type of perp, particularly the not-so-bright ones, it’s the verbal equivalent of the cobra dancing to hypnotise its prey. They get drawn into the weirdness that comes out of his mouth; apparently random, but even _in extremis_ , he’s fine-tuning what he says to somehow get to their functioning brain-cells and start making connections. Even if the connection is as brutal as putting down that knife they’ve just picked up. Which is why I need to up the pace a bit here, because I can see the spotlights bouncing off a wicked hunting blade, and Sandburg, tied up as he is to that piping, is in no state to beat that thing with words alone.

I let myself look at him properly now. Partly to judge what he will be capable of doing when it all goes down, partly to assess how the others are going to react when I move. And also, if I’m honest, to work out what kind of retribution I’m going to exact. He’s not a pretty sight – bloody nose, again; split lip, blackening eye. He’s holding himself like he’s been taking it badly in the gut, but his stance is still defiant. His eyes are bright and ranging all round him, picking up each of his captors in turn to hold their gaze, and at the same time flicking around the blackness beyond him.

I know he’s reaching out to feel whether I’m with him. He’ll pick it up quite soon, but l don’t think he’s there yet, so he’s sending out signals like crazy, rabbiting on about how crap the warehouse is, what a crummy end of town they’ve chosen, and how poor the lighting is for everyone’s eyesight, and why don’t they give the kids some water, and “Terri, Glenn, you just stay where you are, right? Just don’t look at the lights, they’re too bright for you. Just keep looking away, guys, okay?”

And he’s telling jokes.

“So, a polar bear goes into a bar.” He stops for a moment and sniffs back a bit of blood, then spits it out, somewhere in front of the big guy’s feet.

“So, a polar bear walks into a bar, and says to the barman, ‘I’d like a gin and…………tonic, please.’ And the barman says, ‘Why the big pause?’ And the bear goes, ‘I dunno, my dad had them, too.’”

I have, of course, heard that before, but it always makes me laugh. I have to be real careful not to let a snort of amusement leak out right now, because he’s playing to a tough crowd here.

“What, don’t you get that one either?”

“What’s to get?” says one of the other guys, looking around at his buddies like he’s looking for clues.

“Oh! Oh!” says the third guy, suddenly guffawing. “Big paws! I get it! Big paws!”

“What the hell is tonic?” mumbles the second guy to the third.

“Ah, it’s what the British put in their drinks,” says Three, a bit uncertainly.

“Oh, sorry, guys,” says Blair, all sincerity. “Didn’t mean to mess with your heads there. Yeah, it’s just a turn of phrase, you know?”

The lead perp, the one with the knife, stops playing with the blade for a moment, and now allows himself a grin. It’s been explained to him so he doesn’t need to save face.

The knife hasn’t gotten any closer to Blair yet.

“So,” continues my partner, his eyes now only flicking between the three perps – I think he’s got my number – “don’t you have any good jokes to pass the time? I mean, ones we can tell the kids? ‘Cos it’s kind of boring just waiting until the Feds get here again, you know?”

“You don’t need to worry ‘bout no Feds,” says Two, confidently. “We’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“Shut up,” the big perp snarls over his shoulder, then turns to Blair again.

“Don’t you ever shut up, fool?”

“Just passin’ the time, man,” shrugs Blair, “shootin’ the breeze, you know? I gotta tell you, you three are painfully short on topics of conversation. There are so many things we could be talking about – should be, too. Like the penalty for kidnapping, the pros and cons of North-western prisons, the possibility of leniency if you could just see yourselves….”

He’s doing well, so well that’s he has all their attention again, and I’m able to close some more welcome yards, though I still need to be careful in these final moments. But then the thoughtful quiet – and boy, if thought was ever painful then it’s these guys here – is shattered by the trilling of the big perp’s phone. It makes everyone jump, including me, god-dammit, but I’m stalled for a split-second only, and while the big perp takes the call, and all eyes and ears are on him, I’m closing those last feet for the perfect line of sight.

And just as well, because I can hear the one-sided conversation as clearly as the big perp can, and his pals and Blair, too. The voice on the other end of the line is loud and shrill with fury.

_“Whaddaya mean you got that guy with you! Waste him! Now!”_

The big perp closes the phone, slides it into his pocket and hefts the hunting knife again from hand to hand. Blair licks his lips and, his eyes still on the big guy, cranes his neck so he’s speaking over his shoulder - softly, calmly.

“Terri? Glenn? I want you to turn away now, you hear? Turn away and shut your eyes and put your hands over your ears, okay?” There are two muffled, fearful _‘Okay, Blair’s_ from the darkness beyond. Then he turns his head fully back to face the man with the knife again.

He has them perfectly. The big guy is focused on the victim in front of him, the other two on the blade of the knife. Blair’s grin is feral, wicked.

“So, a Sentinel walks into a crappy warehouse.” He stops right there, and the knife guy hesitates, too, just for a moment.

“I don’t see the joke,” he snarls.

“So true, man, says Blair, smiling still, his eyes sparking with both fear and adrenaline, “and you know what? You never will.”

My partner. He’s always right.

 

_++Fin++_


End file.
